


Make a joyful noise

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Music, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: In which the mortal Phantomhive servants sing Christmas carols, and a demon observes.
Relationships: The Phantomhive Servants
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Make a joyful noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CosmicLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicLion/gifts).



> A belated gift for cosmiclion on Tumblr; I hope you enjoy! >w<
> 
> Although this oneshot was written in complete and utter disregard for the canon timeline, I envision it happening shortly before the servants' first Christmas together (hence Finny's ignorance about carols at the beginning of the story)

“The fiiiiirst Noeeeel the angel did saaaay…”

Bard has the kitchen to himself while he mashes potatoes for tonight’s dinner. But that gets damn boring when you’re all on your lonesome, and Christmas is just around the corner…might as well add a little music to the mix. Spice things up.

Out of nowhere, a familiar voice interrupts his solo performance, and the startled chef nearly drops his bowl on the floor.

"What song is that, Bard? It's very pretty."

“Blimey, Finny! Ya can’t sneak up on a guy like that,” he protests, though the former soldier knows he shoulda been paying more attention. A Phantomhive servant has to be vigilant and ready for action, day or night. At least Mr. Sebastian hadn’t caught Bard fooling around…he’d have been in the hot seat for _sure_!

The chef turns to meet a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes, greener than summer leaves at high noon. He's just as taken aback by the compliment (Bard ain’t gonna be heard at the Royal Opera House any time soon) as he is by the question. It's a common enough tune.

Then again, Finny's different from most kids. Growing up, his world was lit by harsh, artificial lights and constricted by blank, white walls. Scalpels that laid you open like a machine whose parts could be reassembled and tampered with at will, needles filled with garish-colored fluids that set your veins on fire, monotonous, indifferent voices that called you by number (never your name; you didn't have one), the sterile reek of disinfectant, and the dull, throbbing, ever-present ache of fear that you wore like a second skin: These were the motifs that had played endlessly throughout his childhood. Music withered and died in places like that.

“It's a carol," Bard answers at last.

"Car-ol?"

Finny spaces out the syllables a tad, and cocks his head to one side like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar command.

"Uh...a type of song you sing around Christmastime. They're usually about the birth of baby Jesus, or the choirs o' angels, or summat. Sometimes you get a bunch of your mates and go door t'door, singin' different carols to lift folks' spirits. Me 'n my pals in the army would sing 'em together sometimes, to make the winter nights feel a little less cold."

The chef pauses and clears his throat. Bard's not one for religion—he's seen too much senseless death and violence to trust airy-fairy promises of glory on high—but those songs are special.

He learned most of the carols he knows from his ma, before the arrows of illness and misfortune struck down his kin and left Bard to fend for himself. They’re among the closest things he has to family heirlooms, like good-luck charms he carries in his pocket. And there are others he learned from fellow soldiers, whose melodies live on in his mind long after an enemy bullet or sudden explosion sent those men to their eternal rest beneath the earth.

“Ooo! That sounds like lots of fun. Could you teach them to me, Bard? Please? I want to sing carols, too!” Finny chirps, beaming with excitement.

The chef pensively scratches his stubble, then grins.

“Uh…sure. I don’t see why not. But let’s make sure Mr. Sebastian doesn’t spot us. You know how he gets when he thinks we ain’t workin’ hard enough.”

He and Finny are lustily belting out the third verse, potatoes completely forgotten, when Mey Rin walks in.

“Thought I should check an’ see what all the commotion’s about, yes I did,” she says, blinking owlishly at the pair from behind her spectacles.

Bard laughs awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck.

“Aw, it warn’t nothin’, Mey. We were just—"

“Bard’s teaching me a Christmas carol!” Finny declares, looking pleased as punch.

Mey Rin’s face lights up in recognition.

“Ohh…that was ‘tha first noel,’ it was!”

“You and Bard are both so smart. Between the two of you, I bet you know all the carols in the world!” Finny gushes, eyes wide with that awe that makes the chef feel like a wise older brother.

“Well…actually, I never learned all that many, no I didn’t. The people I used to work for weren’t—didn’t care much for peace on earth an’ goodwill,” Mey Rin answers slowly, her gaze turning dark. The maid tends to be close-mouthed about her past, but from what Bard’s pieced together based on the occasional detail she’s let slip, Mey used to work as an assassin for a rotten crowd of bastards who’d slit their own mothers’ throats if it turned a profit.

“But at this time of year, when I wasn’t busy with…assignments, I used to bundle up and walk the streets by meself, to watch the snow fall an’ take my mind off things. Every now an’ then I’d pass by groups of people who sang songs like that, about stars an’ angels an’ the babe in the manger. Cheered a body, it did,” she says wistfully, and her eyes mist over.

“Though ‘s far as I can recall, they had the gents and the ladies singin’ different parts, they did,” the maid continues.

“Harmony, y’mean?” Bard asks. He thinks that’s the word for it.

“Oo, oo! We should do that, Bard! Singing carols would be even _more_ fun that way!” Finny exclaims.

Bard crosses his arms and frowns. They'd probably need the actual, written score to figure that out. Mr. Sebastian and the young master can look at a bunch of black squiggles on a page and know exactly which notes to play. But the chef, who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth (to put it politely) never had the chance to get that kind of training. Hell, he doesn’t even know if they _have_ a book of Christmas music lying around the manor, though the library’s certainly big enough.

“Er…maybe we could have a go at the pianner once we’re done fer the evenin’ and see if we can pick out the different parts by ear…but I dunno that much about ticklin’ the ivories…”

“Ho, ho. What’s this I hear about _bocchan’s_ grand piano?” someone enquires.

The servants swing around to see Tanaka peacefully sipping tea in a corner.

“Huh?!” Mey Rin squeaks.

“When did you get there, Mr. Tanaka?” asks the perplexed gardener.

The steward merely gives him an affable smile.

“In my own good time, dear boy,” he chuckles.

Bard shakes his head ruefully. Tanaka’s a sly old codger, that’s for sure.

“Y’see, I was teachin’ Finny a coupla Christmas carols. We’d like Mey Rin to join, too, so we could have a chorus, but, uh…we don’t know th’ harmony,” he explains.

“Ah.”

Tanaka’s face acquires a dreamlike cast, as if he’s staring through the tattered veil of years to behold a scene invisible to all eyes save his.

“I may not be an expert musician, but I’ve played the pianoforte at many a Phantomhive Christmas party. I’m happy to provide accompaniment, if you’d like.”

“Thank yer, Tanaka!” Bard grins, and Mey Rin and Finny are quick to give their assent.

* * *

And that is why, when the moon gleams like a pearlescent tear fallen from Nyx’s dark eye, and the young master has been put to bed, Sebastian Michaelis hears a strain of music floating towards him from the parlor.

“What on earth are they up to?” he mutters to himself, unobtrusively peeking around the door to observe without their noticing.

Tanaka is seated at the pianoforte, atop which a few mounted candles burn to give him light by which to read the sheet music for “The First Noel.” He and the other servants are singing in four-part harmony. The demon can clearly distinguish each voice.

Bard’s, roughened and raspy from cigarette smoke, yet confident and filled with gruff sincerity.

Mey Rin’s, sweet and pure as the starlight that guided the Magi.

Finny’s, whose youthful _joie de vivre_ reminds the ancient demon of a swallow’s exuberant flight.

Tanaka’s, cracked and quavering, but retaining a trace of the luster it must have possessed in his prime, like a battered sword that has not yet lost its shine.

They aren’t breathing from the diaphragm as they ought. Their cutoffs are ragged at best, and their intonation at times leaves much to be desired.

They stand close together, shoulder to shoulder, carefree, laughing. Their happiness pervades the room like fragrant incense wafting through the Byzantine churches Sebastian remembers from bygone days in Constantinople. His devilish gaze perceives the golden threads of trust and friendship that bind them, and which through a series of small kindnesses and fleeting moments like this one will be woven into a vast tapestry of love.

“Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel…Born is the king of Israel!”

It’s ephemeral, this little interlude, but Sebastian realizes he doesn’t want it to end.

A beast of shadow and insatiable hunger like himself has no business intruding upon their joy, lest he blight it. But he treasures the gladsome sound, and ponders it deep in his heart, as Mary did the mysteries of her only begotten son.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Psalm 100:1 "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands (King James Version)
> 
> "But he treasures the gladsome sound, and ponders it deep in his heart, as Mary did the mysteries of her only begotten son.": This is a reference to Luke 2:19: "But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart" (King James Version), in which Mary reflects on the miracles that occurred on the night of the Nativity.


End file.
